Falling from Grace
by night.nerd
Summary: [Contains Sacrifice (8x23) spoilers] "It's me, Cas." Sam appears behind a skeptical Dean, once again scrutinizing me and causing me to fidget nervously. "No, you aren't," Dean responds defiantly. "Cas is a dude, and you're certainly not." "Something went amiss when I..." My voice suddenly becomes inaudible, the sound relocated to the place where my Grace should be.
1. Nightmares

**Author's Note: **Before we begin, I feel like I should explain my idea to switch Castiel's gender instead of getting hate for it. To begin, I am more comfortable with writing from a female's perspective since that is my gender. I also have been cosplaying a lot of Fem!Cas, or Castielle, recently and have become rather fond of the thought of how Castiel would react to a different vessel. It is an idea that is rarely approached in fanfiction. Lastly, I would like to add that I have nothing against gay relationships, such as the typical Destiel. On the contrary, I support it. I just thought this would be an interesting twist to the Destiel relationship.

On another note, this particular fic contains spoilers the season eight finale of Supernatural, Sacrifice. If you have not seen the episode or are unaware of what happens, I highly recommend you come back and read this fic once you have :) I believe I've talked for enough now, so enjoy the fic!

* * *

I knock on a hotel door labeled with an insignificant number that hardly distinguishes this room from any other. The variation is not the number nor the furniture that it holds inside, but rather the individuals that temporarily inhabit the modified living conditions. This particular identical hotel room hosts Sam and Dean Winchester. Several muted curses arise through the thin cracks in the door as they groggily argue over who will be the one to break their serenity of sleep to open the door at this absurd hour. After a silent game of _rock, paper, scissors_ and the resulting curse from Dean, the door is wrenched open. It reveals Dean in nothing but a pair of shorts, and I quickly avert my eyes, abashed.

Immediately I notice that he glances over me, a small female with cinnamon curls and rather apparent azure eyes, before his expression eases into something less harsh. "Listen, I don't know who you are, but my brother and I have only gotten about four hours of sleep this week between us, so if you could come back later that would be fan-freakin'-tastic."

He is beginning to shut the duplicated door on me when I mumble, "Please, Dean. I don't know where else to go."

The door's swift motion pauses, and Dean's gruff voice emanates from the little space that classifies it as remaining open. "How do you know my name?"

"It is not a shock that you are unable to recognize me," I say, rather informatively for I was attempting to keep my newly discovered emotions removed from the conversation. "I hardly was able to identify myself."

"Are you gonna tell me who you are or keep being cryptic?" Dean demanded, rapidly becoming irritated and once again yanking the door open.

I glance over his familiar features, hardened with hidden frustration. Though Dean attempts to express his emotions as little as possible, I have learned how to see the subtle subtext. "It's me, Cas." Sam appears behind a skeptical Dean, once again scrutinizing me and causing me to fidget nervously.

"No, you aren't," Dean responds defiantly. "Cas is a dude, and you're certainly not."

"Something went amiss when I…" My voice suddenly becomes inaudible, the sound relocated to the place where my Grace should be. My back feels bare without the wings that usually adorn it, a feathery sense of loss that is a constant irritant, and I adjust my back to accommodate it. "I do not understand precisely why I took this form rather than my usual, but I may be able to reappear in my regular vessel in a couple of days."

"I don't understand," Sam admitted, his eyebrows drawn over his sympathetic brown eyes. "What logical explanation is there for that?"

My mind mulls over the multiple possibilities, settling upon the most likely. I believe that there are still traces of my Grace tainting my true vessel, meaning I am incapable of inhabiting Jimmy as I would prefer until all the Grace has been washed from his form. I am unclear to whether his consciousness has regained command of his physical being, but at the moment it is not of importance. However, as Sam and Dean are unaware of my recent plummet, I cannot explain this to them. The only alternative seems to be lying, which is something I'm neither fond of nor decent at. "I am not confident in an explanation."

Dean infers that I am finished on the particular subject. "See, I value my four hours over this little chat right now, so how 'bout we continue it later?," Dean interjects, agitated. He gestures into the darkened hotel room and then silently shuts the oak door behind me. "I know you don't sleep, so just… no creepy keeping watch over," Dean stumbled, nearly saying _me _before catching himself, "us, alright?" I nod solemnly. Dean and Sam amble back to their individual beds before lying down and shutting their heavy eyelids. Sam begins to snore lightly, and then about five minutes later, Dean's breath becomes more even as each exhale comes at a constant rate. I feel a slight aching in my body, and my mind becomes contorted as the world becomes blurry for an unidentified cause. Rest may aid me in appeasing this exhaustion, so I sink onto the velvet couch hoping that it will replenish my energy. The world twists into a daze as sleep, an unfamiliar sensation, consumes me.

* * *

Searing wings turn to ash, leaving a trail of broken, bloodied feathers that gracefully waltz through the air. The metallic tint of blood stains the atmosphere, dousing the angels in the scarlet of their mangled wings. Grace is forcefully being extracted from every individual angel, with one exception – the merciless Metatron, leaving our home in Heaven barren and in consuming flames. The newfound humans plunge towards Earth's ground, powerless to support themselves without their elaborate wings. The intolerable pain and suffering pulsates through the sky full of fallen stars, fallen angels.

Their inhuman shrieks pursue my formless soul until the voices distort into a singular, monotonous murmur. "You did this. You did this, Castiel." The repetitive statements glide into a hiss, the consonants being elongated. "You did this. This is entirely your fault. You caused this."

"No," I croak, the sound emanating from an unknown source. Instantaneously I was able to determine that it was not the voice of my true vessel, Jimmy, because it lacked the deep baritone.

"The angels wouldn't have fallen if it wasn't for you. You _broke _Heaven, Castiel. Then you gleefully emptied it out. You are glad you don't have to find a way to handle the struggle against the stress that accompanies along with any kind of position in leadership, for you would repeat the same offenses. Remember the Leviathan?" I realize the words resound through the crevices of my mind, and I attempt to force the malicious words out to purify my thoughts. There is suddenly a hollow chasm where my larynx previously was, and despite this, I can still feel the atrocious laughter resonating with cruelty escaping my lips. "Yes, it's me, Metatron." He indicates to the gruesome scene surrounding the body we are sharing. "I didn't bring this about alone, Castiel. You caused it with your overwhelming need to compensate for your mistakes, for that made you easy to manipulate. You not only harmed yourself, but every remaining brother and sister that you hadn't previously murdered."

Crimson flames are produced from alternative sources of fuel, blazing across the earth while scorching the remains of my home in Heaven. Before I am entirely aware, every individual being, human or not, is burning with the excruciating agony I was the source of. The smoke obscures my vision as the Grace of a myriad of shattered angels entraps me.

* * *

I awake with a sharp inhale, my senses beginning to gradually comprehend the near silence settled over the serene hotel room. My eyes take a decent amount of time to adjust to the frigid color of night while I attempt to wrangle my scattered thoughts into a defense against my recent nightmare. _It may have been my fault, but I was tricked. Metatron told me that the spell would simply close off Heaven, forcing its inhabitants to fix their several problems. It's not my fault… _Despite this, I lose confidence every time I repeat the statement.

The shadows contort to form a figure looming above me, and I dismiss the danger due to the illusion I still have my angel abilities. By the time I remember recent events, I am able to recognize the person. "Cas," There is a pause, allowing Dean to adjust to the new form he associates the word with, "were you sleeping?"

"I believe so," I muse, keeping my tone quiet so I wouldn't wake up Sam. I have learned previously that he does not appreciate that.

"I thought angels don't sleep." His outline becomes more defined as my eyes continue to focus through the darkness, and I can see that he crosses his arms.

Hesitation causes me to falter, trying to determine what extent of the truth I should share with Dean. _More profound bond, _scurries through my mind. "They don't." His confusion is evident through his unnatural silence, contradicting who Dean is as an individual. "I'm not an angel anymore, Dean." Further silence implies that I did not clarify to the extent that Dean was hoping for. "We, I, fell from Heaven after Metatron stole my Grace." Guilt twists my words into a more downcast tone, which Dean appears to notice.

"I'm sure we can get it back," Dean attempts to reassure me.

I shake my head, unnaturally long hair whipping around my head in a rather irritating movement. I could be mistaken, but I believe Dean chuckles. "I- I don't think we can, Dean. Metatron is most likely storing it in heaven, which I no longer have access to."

"What about the other angels? Can't they just snap their fingers and get it?"

"They fell too. They _burned, _Dean, and it is all because I was unable to realize that Metatron was manipulating me. I caused every single one of my siblings an unimaginable amount of pain." The devastating event begins a cycle through my thoughts, wracked with emotion, and causes an involuntary irregularity in my breathing and constant sharp pricks behind my eyes.

After a couple of moments, Dean sits down beside me and clumsily places his arms around my shoulder in a comforting gesture. For an unexplainable reason, it appears to make me feel a little better. "Is that what your nightmare was about?" I give Dean an expression that conveyed how perplexed I was that he was able to deduce that as quickly as he did. "I'm not an idiot, Cas, despite common belief. You were asleep, and then you woke up in distress."

"You are correct. I am more attuned to their agony, magnified by Metatron's malevolence. But it's my fault, and I can't stop thinking about it." Dean, unsure of how to verbally respond to this, just tightens his grip around me protectively. Fatigue begins to ebb into my thoughts, and I wearily rest my head on Dean's bare shoulder.

We stay in the same, silent position for an incalculable amount of time before Dean laughs, a gruff sound muted to assure his brother's sleep. "What's humorous?" I inquire, incapable of understanding why he was suddenly content.

"You reek, Cas. What are you wearing anyways?"

I glance down as a futile attempt to answer his question, but the darkness prevents it. "I… I don't know. It was not of importance."

"Well, it certainly is now." He stands, causing me to readjust to compensate for his movement, and walks over to the bag settled at the bottom of his bed's headboard before rummaging through its contents. He grabs an item and saunters over to me, holding a blue, plaid shirt. "Here, put this on." I take the cozy flannel shirt, already unbuttoned, and begin to pull the long sleeves over the ones that I have previously on. Dean shakes his head, amused. "No, Cas. The idea is that you can change out of your dirty clothes and put on something clean." I nod, nearly grasping the concept, and timidly take the shirt to the small bathroom next to the bed Sam's snores are emanating from. The blinding light reveals that I am wearing a worn pair of sneakers, filthy socks, jeans ripped in the knees, and a simple tee shirt. I begin to undress, layer by layer, and then pull Dean's comfortable shirt over my head. _It smells like him,_ I think, recognizing the diverse scents of both greasy fast food and an aura of the outdoors. I proceed to pushing the sleeves back to my elbows, for they are much too long, and button up Dean's large shirt before fingerbrushing the knotted curls. Bending down to reach the clothes gathered in a rather messy heap on the floor, I retrieve them and pile them nicely under the sink. I then turn the florescent bathroom light off and stumble over the blindness to stand by the couch, my eyelids feeling as if they were to droop over my eyes.

"Better." Dean nods approvingly. "Now, I still need my four hours, so we'll talk more in the morning." He sinks into the mattress, offering sleep permission to overtake him.

Embarrassed of what I am about to ask, I drop my hands to my sides, the sleeves slipping past my elbows to my fingertips, and nervously fuss with the hem of the shirt. "Dean?"

There is a note of frustration in his voice. "What?"

"How do I prevent those illusions you call dreams?"

He briefly considers the question before his temper, shorted by his lack of sleep, responds for him. "You can't really. You just have to struggle through them." He shifts his position from his back to one of his shoulders.

"May I…," I begin, already apprehensive of the question, "can I sleep next to you?"

"Why?" It is a single, disbelieving syllable, echoing with another emotion I haven't been able to identify yet.

I stutter over a response, my cheeks rather heated and my thoughts abandoning any logical reply. "I… uh, nevermind," I falter.

"Wuss," Dean mutters. "You're not gonna make a request like that without an explanation." There once again is the appeal to lie instead of admitting that I feel protected when near Dean, but the muddled words come out as a flustered, nearly inaudible sound. "Spit it out, Cas. You sound like a preteen girl with a crush." The analogy is more accurate than I care to admit, but I decide to keep that particular portion of information to myself. "Fine," Dean mumbles, turning over and attempting to fall back asleep.

I fathom that this is my last opportunity, so I begin talking at such a speed that my words blend together in an attempt to get them out as quick as possible. "IfeelsafewhenIamwithyoulikethingsmayactuallybealr ightforamomentItfeelslikethereissomeonewhomayaccep tmedespitethecircumstances."

"Cas, I didn't understand a word of that."

I nervously run my fingers through my hair before taking a deep breath and repeating what I said previously at a slower pace. "I feel safe when I am with you, Dean, like things may actually be alright for a moment. It feels like there is someone who may accept me despite the circumstances." The words are bulky when I'm saying them, but there is an undeniable truth that remains that makes them sound much better once they are said. Dean sits up, looking at me through a haze of night with emerald eyes that I can picture clearly.

"Me too." The idea that this particular, very human sensation may be mutual spreads unusual warmth throughout me for reasons that I can't quite interpret.

"So, um, may I?" Dean nods, acknowledging and furthermore accepting the request nonverbally, and simply watches as I sit down next to him crosslegged on the rather narrow hotel bed. "Thank you. I just don't want to have another nightmare."

Dean chuckles quietly, and I become aware that we are sitting in rather close proximity to one another. "I hate to tell you this, but they don't really go away." His voice, in its reduced volume, sounds even more coarse than usual.

"Why not?"

"I wish I could tell you, Cas. It's just a normal part of human life." He sounds bitter, as if nightmares are a frequent occurrence for him.

For a moment, I am filled with an insatiable curiosity for an explanation of this complicated man who I've known for years and still can't quite comprehend. My interest consumes me, and I feel compelled to speak. "What do you have nightmares about?"

His initial response is defensive, as I expected. "That's kind of personal." The exhaustion I have been fighting is starting to overpower me, and I lay down, resting my head on the pillow and sliding under the blankets. Dean soon mimics my actions, and his outline becomes more defined as my gaze fixates on him in the dim light. "Hell," he states. "But I suppose that's expected. It's more than that though; it's what I did there to all those souls, how I tortured them." His voice transitions into something with a sorrowful subtext. "And nightmares about losing the few people I have left. Charlie, Sam, you…" He fumbles around until he finds my hand, tentatively entwining his fingers with mine. "And airplanes." Dean shudders, causing me to laugh quietly. The chuckle is concluded with a weary yawn. "I think you should probably go to sleep Cas."

"I'm still not very fond of the idea," I admit apprehensively.

"It'll be alright," Dean assures me. He shifts so that he is even closer than before, sending my heart into strange rhythms that I don't recognize, and untwines our fingers so he can wrap an arm around me, making me feel precisely as I was attempting to explain previously. He falls asleep before I do, but I allow sleep to soon engulf me and follow quickly behind.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well guys, that's the end of Chapter One! Chapter Two is currently in the works and hopefully should be posted shortly. I hope you enjoyed it, for I certainly enjoyed writing that bit of fluff at the end :)

Please review! What takes me hours to write only takes you a couple of seconds to review.

Until the next chapter!  
-NN


	2. Humanity

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter! I've had it done for a while, but between attempting to complete character developments for my actual novel and lack of internet, I simply hadn't posted it until now. Chapter Three is untouched at the moment, but it will come. Eventually.

Any and all mistakes are mine, for I do not have a Beta Reader, and all the characters belong to Supernatural.

Anyways, here is the rather humorous chapter two!

* * *

The roaring sound of laughter is what wakes me up in the morning, and the first thing I notice is that sometime during the night I had repositioned myself so that I am now sprawled across Dean's bare chest and his arms are embracing me rather tightly. I can feel him shift as the continuous snickering wakes him up also, peering down at me under groggy eyelids but not saying anything or readjusting. Sam is now holding his aching sides as he continues to laugh uncontrollably, but I remain unable to determine what is making Sam act in such a bizarre manner.

"What's so funny?" Dean finally demands. Sam briefly attempts a response before falling into another fit of hysterics, occasionally looking at Dean and me. We appear to be the source of his laughter, but I don't understand what is so humorous. "Sam!" Dean exclaims out of frustration before repeating himself, placing emphasis on every individual word. "What is so funny?" Dean infers that Sam will be unable to reveal the source of his endless laughter for a rather large amount of time, so he attempts to deduce it himself. He glances around, eyeing everything rather wearily, and suddenly recalls something that causes him to look down at me, who is still lying comfortably across his bare chest. He gazes down at the plaid shirt that I'm wearing, his plaid shirt, and then seems to really notice our position for the first time. He chuckles weakly, a raindrop compared to Sam's downpour, and pulls out one of his arms from around me to rub the back of his neck. "Sam, it isn't… It's not…" Words elude him, and his futile attempt at a decent explanation apparently exposes something that I cannot quite read to Sam. Sam often glances at us, still occasionally chuckling, and in response, Dean, who I can tell is abashed underneath his indifferent façade, gently removes his other arm that was curled around my waist and sits up. I do the same, crossing my legs neatly beneath me. "Any news on the vengeful spirit?" He speaks directly to Sam.

"No. I was going to do some research on local history this morning but then I stumbled upon," his eyes take on a mischievous glint, "a humorous occurrence." I tilt my head slightly and a look at Dean with an expression that conveys my evident confusion. Despite this, Dean avoids eye contact, and I am unable to determine why, though I can guess it has something to do with Sam's bewildering, and apparently untrue, accusation.

"Shut up, Sammy," Dean growls. "So what do we still have to do to stop this Casper-gone-wrong?" He stands and begins to rifle through his duffle bag. I subconsciously fret with the sleeves of his navy shirt once again, causing Sam's eyes to trail the movement and attract a smirk on his already smug face. He also ignores my quizzical gaze, abandoning me in my hopeless yearning for clarity regarding this situation.

"I need to find the bones, salt them, and torch them. You and Cas are going after a shapeshifter," Sam triumphantly meets Dean's eyes, and Dean glares back with an unmatched ferocity, "similar to the one we fought in St. Louis by the sound of it. It has been targeting female victims and torturing them using faces it finds familiar."

Dean pauses, allowing time for his mind to comprehend the information. "Why is Cas coming with me?" he demands. Another searing emotion spikes through me – possibly betrayal? I attempt to ignore it, for it is rather unpleasant. However, Dean's emerald eyes finally focus upon my own, seeming to transfer nonverbal apologies despite his otherwise stoical features, and Sam, who notices the miniscule gesture, grins.

"That's why." Sam begins to gather his scattered belongings, and it leads me to assume the Winchesters are about ready to leave this hotel. My head blurs together a multitude of various thoughts as an attempted interpretation of the brothers' odd behavior, Dean more embarrassed than I could have ever imagined and Sam gloating unlike anything I have witnessed previously in the decent amount I time I have known him.

Dean doesn't even bother with a reply to Sam's statement, and instead approaches a new topic. "How did you even find out about the shifter?"

"Garth texted me yesterday with the case," Sam informs us while throwing a book into his backpack. "Apparently, he found a way to reestablish the GPS application on at least one of our phones."

"Time to contact Charlie again," Dean mutters as he extracts a shirt from his bag. I no longer feel as bashful around a shirtless Dean as I was yesterday due to our proximity both last night and after I awoke this morning, but I still timidly avert my eyes as Dean pulls on a simple black tee, partially because Sam is scrutinizing me suspiciously. Sam begins to mentally note every action between Dean and I, categorizing it, as if he is intending on analyzing them later.

"Cas, I think you should probably find more suitable clothes than Dean's shirt," Sam adds after a while, amusement smeared across his rather broad features and enhancing his wide smile. "One of us may have something in our bags."

I glance down at my attire, not particularly fond of the idea of changing out of Dean's comfortable and comforting plaid shirt. "Why must I change?"

"You can't hunt in that," Sam reasoned. "Dean, do you have anything?" Dean once again flicks through the contents of his bag before locating a pair of women's jeans that I estimate is near the size of my vessel and displaying them for Sam to see.

"That's all I have. What about you?" Sam peers into his bag, unable to find anything, and shrugs in response. "Well Cas, it looks like you're stuck with my shirt." A slight smile assumes control over my lips without my consent, and I may be mistaken, but Dean seems to mirror it, enhanced with possessiveness. "Here," Dean tosses the jeans to me, and I catch them before proceeding to the bathroom to get changed as I did the previous night, hoping that I am not misunderstanding typical human behavior.

Daylight streams through the window hovering over the shower, illuminating the small bathroom and the items within it. My filthy clothes are still under the sink, and I can smell the slight stench emitting from them. I am about to pull on the jeans over Dean's large shirt when I hear the beginning of a conversation that I hope can provide an answer to my questions regarding the odd atmosphere that occupied the hotel room this morning. "So, how was it?" Sam asks, and I am unable to determine if he is taunting Dean about whatever this 'it' may be or if he is being serious.

"Dude, no. This is Cas we're talking about."

"He, well, she isn't quite the same anymore, as you've undoubtedly noticed." More implications are hidden in the subtext of his words.

"Close enough," Dean sulks, as if he is unable to believe Sam is having this conversation with him.

Intrigued, I take a step closer to the locked door that separates me from the Winchesters, and listen to Sam's retort. "Then explain how you two managed to get into that position, or why she," he stumbles over the pronoun, "was wearing your shirt. I mean, I know that I'm a heavy sleeper and all, but-"

"Shut up, Sammy. Nothing happened." Sam chuckles, and their exchange comes to an abrupt end.

I pull on the jeans and button them up, simultaneously trying to decipher the dialogue between Sam and Dean into an understandable explanation, and notice that they are still slightly too large. "Dean," I call through the closed door, "the pants are not the correct size."

"What do you mean?" A snicker from Sam immediately follows Dean's response.

"They are nearly two sizes too large for this particular vessel," I report, holding them up with both thumbs twisted through the belt loops resting on my hips. There is the sound of someone sifting through fabric and then clinking metal before there is a light knock at the bathroom door.

"Cas, I found a belt. Let me in. Please," he adds as an afterthought. Sam is once again in something that resembles hysterics, and I briefly wonder if this could possibly be because of an obscure medical condition instead of the situation. I cannot locate anything humorous in needing a device to resize trousers. Still holding up the large pair of jeans with one hand, I shuffle forward through the excess material pooled at my feet and yank the door open. Dean, who has suddenly become rather flustered, stiffly hands me the leather belt that I clumsily thread through the denim belt loops.

I meet Dean's steadfast gaze, emerald eyes familiar to me through my rebellion against heaven, my corruption through my uncontrollable desire for power and the Leviathan, purgatory, and now the loss of my Grace. "Thank you." Though I am simply thanking him for bringing me a braided strip of leather, I feel as though I should be thanking this man for so much more.

"Sure." I take a step towards the main room so I can aid Dean and Sam in gathering their belongings, but my foot stumbles upon the surplus material from the pants and propels me forward into Dean's figure with such force that we topple over, my petite vessel that I am still becoming accustomed to on top of his rather muscular frame. Sam instantly begins roaring with voluminous laughter that occupies the entire hotel room, and Dean's hands automatically move to my waist in an almost protective gesture. His eyes meet mine with a particular uncertainty, as if he is attempting to make a difficult decision.

"I'll-" Sam chokes out, "I'll leave you two alone." Sam is once again rendered incapable of speech, or anything besides laughing really, and there is the sound of the door branded with an insignificant number opening and then consecutively closing.

"I am sorry about that," I breathe, overtaken by an emotion that I encountered while still an angel that only magnified with humanity that I am unable, or quite possibly unwilling, to identify.

"It's fine." His eyes, eternally older than the rest of him, reveal his confusion, and the hesitation in his speech confirms it. I cannot help but notice the splatter of faded freckles adorning his features, hardened with confliction. His brow begins to furrow as the internal debate intensifies.

"Dean, are you alright?" Concern that I wish to mask happens to trickle into my voice despite my apparently weak attempts to conceal it.

He nods dubiously. "Yeah." He begins to gently push me off, gradually applying pressure to my waist as I simultaneously steady myself on my feet, and then he subsequently gets up. "You should probably roll up the bottoms of your jeans," he tells me, his tone edging on monotonous.

"Yes." I bend over and fold up the rather thick, worn material with more difficulty than I would have expected due to Dean's wandering gaze skimming across my vessel's body. When I finish, I straighten my posture and meet Dean's stare, brimming with a variety of emotions ranging from a clash in desire to a muted longing, for what I imagine could be considered an uncomfortable amount of time by most. However, for Dean and me, this unspoken form of communication is common, especially when regarding feelings we refuse to confront verbally or potentially even to ourselves. After an incalculable amount of time, I decide I should approach the silence by initiating a conversation. "Should we retrieve Sam?"

"I don't think he's finished yet," Dean scowls, glancing at the window where Sam is spying on us with an unmatched attentiveness despite his shaking shoulders.

"Does Sam have a rare disease that makes him laugh an excessive amount?" My inquiry causes Dean to chuckle, his half smile revealing that he is amused.

"No. Sam just finds everything funny, even if it isn't," he explains.

I squint slightly and tilt my head, a quirk that I tend to exhibit whenever I am bewildered or confused, as if that would bring the situation clarity. "What makes this morning more humorous than the multitude of other mornings I have spent with you and Sam? The only thing that has been altered is the gender of my vessel, and I do not think Sam would find such an excessive amount of laughter in that."

Dean gestures to the window with a nod, and through it I can see Sam's ear pressed against the polished glass as he awaits distorted words to flow through. "I'll tell you later," he assures me halfheartedly before sauntering over to the window soundlessly and knocking on it, causing Sam, who was more focused on hearing the conversation than watching it, to leap back in surprise. Dean marches over to the door and wrenches it open, demanding that his younger brother come inside through actions rather than words. His features are twisted with exaggerated guilt, but his eyes gleam smugly, as if they are chanting _I told you so_ to an already irritated Dean. "Are you ready to go? I'm all packed," Dean states.

"I'm ready when you are. I believe the source of the vengeful spirit is in the next town over, Sedona or something, so if you could just drop me off at a motel there, you and Cas can be on your way." Sam hoists his duffle bag onto a broad shoulder, and Dean mimics his action before taking a final sweep of the room.

"Did Garth say where the shifter was? Like what town?" Dean begins heading out the door with me trailing behind him, and Sam shuts the door behind us all.

"Flagstaff. There was another hunter on the same case who contacted Garth a couple days ago requesting help, but nobody has heard from him since. That may be worth investigating." Team Freewill descends down the concrete stairs and proceeds through the parking lot until we reach Dean's prized Impala, where Dean immediately claims the driver's seat while Sam slides into the passenger's. I assume the remaining backseat must be mine, and I cautiously pull the handle to release the door from its latch, taking care not to harm the one material item that Dean treasures above all others, and then gingerly pull it shut. I immediately reach for the seatbelt, for this is what I assume humans do to prevent injury in the unlikely event of a crash, and Dean, who is surveying me through the rear-view mirror, snickers.

"Cas, you don't need that." Dean's tone implies that this should be something that I should simply understand, for as an angel I never wore a seatbelt, and apparently that should be transferred over to my human experiences. The new word to describe my change in species, human, is becoming more comfortable than I would like it to be, for I must hold on to the hope that there is a way to retrieve my Grace, and further my wings, despite the pain that accompanies reminiscing about being an angel.

The seatbelt rests limply in my hands, and I eye it wearily. "Why not? I thought these devices were designed to avoid harm to the person sitting in this particular seat if there was to be a type of collision."

"Dean's a good driver. I don't think he'll crash," Sam assures me. "Besides, the seatbelts can get rather constricting after about an hour."

"That's only because you're a freaking giant," Dean mutters under his breath before sparking the ignition, causing the engine to thunder to life. Sam decides to ignore the comment rather than retaliate and struggles resisting a snide comment when Dean ejects his current cassette tape to replace it with one labeled Asia. His groan seems to fill the entire interior of the car when a track titled _Heat of the Moment_ begins to play, and even I can tell he is holding back several strong profanities. This causes his older brother to smirk in response. After the song concludes, the atmosphere settles into familiarity, and between the rock music and the gentle lull of the car, I begin to find myself slowly slipping into sleep.

* * *

"Cas, Sammy's leaving," Dean announces, yanking me from my daze as Sam waves from the entrance to the rather neglected motel to my left. I wave back groggily, allowing my eyes to adjust to the sunlight streaming in through the windows while trying to bring Sam's distant figure into focus. Dean has an elbow propped up against the backrest and has repositioned himself so that he is turned at an angle, therefore being able to see me better. "You, shotgun." He jerks his thumb at the seat Sam had previously occupied next to him before continuing. "I'm not gonna drive around like some soccer mom takin' a kid to school." I clamber over the leather cushions separating the front seat from the back, and when I lose my balance and topple over face first, Dean chuckles fondly. I immediately right myself and cross my legs, trying to find posture that accommodates my surroundings.

The static scene outside of the Impala begins to blur to the extent where I can no longer distinguish individual landmarks from one another as Dean's gaze becomes fixated on me. An odd fluttering, similar to the sound my wings used to make whenever I transported from one area to the next, begins to swell in my stomach, extending through my chest to brush against the base of my throat. Without glancing away, he twists the keys so that the engine's grumble fades away into silence and slides closer to me, allowing the space between us to become almost tangible. He removes his arm that he has draped across the back of the seat and instead placing it so that it is resting on the small of my back, causing me to straighten even further at the contact.

"Dean, what are you doing?" I stumble through the words, distracted by the freckles etched into his skin and the fact that we are so close that I could count them, if I had the desire to do so. Generally I would, but my attention is focused on the arrogant grin pulling at his lips.

"What are you referring to?" He places his other hand at the base where my wings used to be, and, despite the rather intimate moment with Dean, I feel a twinge of loss. However, the aching feeling is quickly forgotten as Dean leans forwards and presses his lips to mine. The sensation is unlike I had ever imagined, though I would like to convince myself I had never pictured a scenario similar to this one, and he begins to pull me closer when–

An exclamation of shock shatters what I am forced to reason must be a dream, despite the protest from the bold emotion inside of me. Sam is transfixed, his mouth agape and his unblinking stare burning on me. "You… you were sleeping," he states numbly. "I thought angels don't sleep."

"Why is this such a big deal? You saw Cas sleeping this morning," Dean reasons, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel. I find difficulty in even glimpsing him, for it brings the dream to mind and all the potential possibilities there are in our relationship. Abashed, I glance away, not wanting to face those emotions. I am still unable to comprehend how humans are able to manage such powerful emotions, especially because they encounter them several times throughout their daily routines.

"I suppose I did, but I didn't really notice it," Sam admits. "There were more important thoughts running through my mind at the moment." He runs his fingers through his shaggy hair that Dean often insists needs to be cut shorter.

Dean's lips set themselves into a heavy scowl, and I am briefly reminded of the fictional sensation of them on mine. _Stop it, _I command myself. _Dean is simply your best friend, nothing more. _I attempt to dismiss any counterarguments the human portion of me rapidly provides. "Well, you should have been paying more attention, Sammy." The words are clipped, as if Dean is slightly irritated with whatever Sam is referring to as 'more important'.

"Is anybody going to explain why Cas is asleep?" Sam repeats.

I recall that I only informed Dean of my fall from Heaven and realize I must confront the decision to share the truth with Sam. _He's my friend, _I remind myself. Sam has proven himself trustworthy over the years and has a right to know. He glances back at me, waiting for me to speak, and I drop my gaze to the car's floor as I respond. "I am no longer an angel." My tone is dejected, as to be expected, but the words come easily. There is no more hesitation, even if I still harbor a certain amount of both regret and desire to return to my usual form.

"What?" Sam exclaims, causing Dean to flick his eyes over at his brother to assure himself that Sam was coping alight. I get another flash of those eyes fixating onto mine as he violated everything he had taught me about personal space, and I scold myself for the thought. "You mean you're human?" He pauses, allowing himself adequate time to analyze the situation while I wrestle with my thoughts. When Sam resumes talking, his voice is a steady, yet confident, command. "And you're about to head off on a case with Dean? I think maybe you should stick with me instead, Cas. Vengeful spirits tend to be easier to get rid of than shifters."

Dean speaks first, but my words quickly overrun his. "Are you implying that I can't keep-"

"Sam, I have fought against foes more dangerous than you can comprehend. I do not require a person who sits on a baby."

"The term is babysitter, Cas," Dean reminds me, the words beckoning my thoughts to the previously dream.

"Precisely."

"You could get hurt," Sam protests, voice rising in slight defiance.

"That has always been the case. Being human does not alter any of the dynamics," I insist.

"You are more likely to get hurt though," Sam proceeds.

I sigh softly. "That is not of import. There are people being harmed, and there is a possibility that Dean and I may be able to prevent future attacks. I am not withdrawing simply because the danger has been increased if I may be of more assistance to Dean than you. I believe you previously stated that it is more difficult to rid a town of a shapeshifter in comparison to a vengeful spirit, meaning I should try to aid in the more difficult task. As I have heard said previously, there is strength in numbers. I assume that implies the number of people."

"Cas has a point." Dean directs this to his younger brother, knowing that if he provides support to my side of the issue that Sam will be forced to accept this due to the fact that, traditionally, he is outvoted.

"Fine," Sam mutters in defeat. "I'm taking my laptop though, so you may need to find other ways to locate information."

"I know how to read a newspaper," Dean scoffs. "And I got along fine without you and your fancy laptop for a while, remember?"

"If you are referring to when I was studying at Stanford, then you had Dad's laptop."

"Not always," Dean tries to convince his brother, knowing that there is truth in Sam's words whether he would like to admit it or not. "We're about to hit Sedona. Do you have everything ready?" A nod from Sam suffices as an answer, and I direct my attention to the window. The blurred surroundings from my dream sharpen into rocks layered with various shades of red that were once shaped by flowing water. The small town at the base of the looming rocks consists of mostly houses of the same shade, purposely build that color to match the most prominent landmark in their area.

Midday traffic glides by on the narrow highway, and Sam attempts to locate the nearest motel that offers WiFi by looking at a travel guide designed for Arizona. "Dean, take a left at the next stoplight," Sam instructs without glancing up, keeping his eyes focused on the map in front of him. "From there, take the next right. That should lead you directly to the Cherokee Motel at the end of the street."

"Alright," Dean confirms as he drives past the first green stoplight. The next remains red for a decent amount of time, in which the only thing filling the heated air flowing in through the open windows is Dean's choice of rather outdated rock music. The arrow flashes from red to green, allowing the cars in the turning lane to shift onto the road to their left. Dean then takes a right, as Sam advised him, and drives through a residential neighborhood that hosts the particular motel Sam was directing him to. "Cas, why don't you help Sam carry in his things while I map out where we are going," Dean remarks. Though I am quite positive Sam is able to lift his own possessions without me, neither Sam or I argue with this. Dean decreases the speed of the Impala as he passes over a speed bump at the entrance to the motel, gesturing to the office as he halts the car. "I'll wait here," Dean adds as Sam opens the door to the passenger's seat before exiting it. I do the same, and he tosses me a rather light bag, possibly clothing.

"Cas," Sam begins, clearing his throat, as we walk towards the building marked as the office, "We need to talk."

"What are you referring to?" I inquire quizzically.

"What happened between you and Dean last night?" Sam attempts to reveal no emotion through this statement, but I am still able to hear the subtle undertones of humor and longing for information.

I pause, the memories occupying my mind. "I had a nightmare," I explain, unsure of what he could be implying or attempting to understand, "and Dean gave me permission to sleep next to him, for I believed that would repel further night terrors."

"Is that all?" He sounds slightly disappointed.

"What more would there be?" He shrugs, attempting to calculate something in his mind, while I continue to shuffle towards the door of the motel office. Sam kindly pulls the door open for me, and I trail behind him with his bag as he walks in. "Sam, what did you find so humorous this morning? It sounded as if you were taunting Dean about something he claimed did not happen."

Sam chuckles. "You should ask Dean about that, for I think he would give you a much better explanation. Anyways, I am going to check in, which may take a while, so I will just take that bag from you. Then you and Dean may be on your merry way." He relieves me of the light bag before wrapping me in a one-armed hug.

"Goodbye Sam," I murmur as he releases me.

"See ya." As I am about to walk through the door, Sam calls, "Oh, and Cas, tell Dean I hope he has a great time sleeping with you." Sam winks for an undetermined reason before turning away, and I am left to ponder why sleeping next to somebody would equate to a great time.

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you are still reading this, well, thank you!

Well, I'm pretty sure you can tell, but I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I was also half-asleep while writing parts of it, so I apologize for that... Anyways...

Remember, what takes me hours of writing (and attempting to figure out how to write one single little sentence - yes, that did actually happen in this chapter) only takes you seconds to review, and the reviews motivate me unlike anything else! Once again, thanks for reading!

Until the next time!

-NN


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